95 


UC-NRLF 


^HESE  DEGENERATE  DAYS 


or  j.  SAVAGE 


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single  copies,  5  cents.  

GEO.  H.  ELLIS,  Publisher, 

141  Franklin  St.,  Boston,  Mass. 


THESE  DEGENERATE  DAYS 


MINOT  J.  SAVAGE 


"Not  ten  strong  men  th"  enormous  weight  could  raise, — 
Such  men  as  live  in  these  degenerate  days  " 

Pope's  HOMER 


BOSTON 

GEO.  H.  ELLIS,  141  FRANKLIN  STREET 
1887 


&  u 

& 


COPYRIGHT 
BY  M.   J.   SAVAGB 


2Co  51*  U,  tlotoelL 


Wit,  Humorist,  Poet,  Critic,  Diplomat: 

How  many  and  what  jewels  deck  the  crown 
That  marks  the  kingship  of  thy  fair  renown, — 

The  only  kingship  that  a  democrat 

Like  thee  could  covet !    But,  when  one  has  sat 
Upon  thy  throne  of  thought,  and,  looking  down, 
Has  seen  men  cringing  at  a  monarch's  frown, 

Beside  real  power,  how  poor  must  seem  all  that! 

I  have  been  one  content  to  sit  and  hear 
Thy  lark-song  falling  from  the  upper  air 

To  cheer  the  vale  to  humble  tasks  assigned. 
And  still  thy  old  notes  echo  in  my  ear; 
And,  as  I  listen,  earth  grows  very  fair, 

While  I  take  heart  and  hope  for  all  mankind! 


Mi.91896 . 


"God  is  not  dumb,  that  he  should  speak  no  more; 
If  thou  hast  wanderings  in  the  wilderness 
And  find'st  not  Sinai,  'tis  thy  soul  is  poor; 
There  towers  the  mountain  of  the  Voice  no  less, 
Which  whoso  seeks  shall  find." 

LOWELL'S  Bibliolatres. 


Degenerate  Da^s. 


O  LOWELL,  once  thy  ringing  words 
Were  keen  and  flashing,  like  the  swords 
With  which  Jehovah's  hosts  clove  down 
The  fierce  Philistine's  haughty  crown ! 

In  days  when  Liberty  lay  low, 
Despair  of  friend  and  scorn  of  foe  ; 
When  o'er  her,  in  exultant  mood, 
Stood  111  in  liveried  guise  of  Good  ; 
When  Commerce,  if  it  had  a  soul, 
Had  traded  it  for  Judas'  dole ; 
When  Fashion,  in  her  high  estate, 
Spelled  out  success  and  called  it  great ; 


*  Written  on  reading   Lowell's   "  Credidimus   Jovem   Regnare"  in  the 
Atlantic  for  February,  1887. 


When   preachers,  like  false  watch-dogs,  bayed 
To  fright  the  Truth  they  had  betrayed,— 
Then  thou,  young  David,  with  thy  sling 
Didst  to  his  knees  the  giant  bring, 
And,  filling  Israel's  foes  with  dread, 
Dismay  through  all  his  cohorts  spread ! 

Or  —  change  the  figure  —  when  increased 
The  revel  of  the  godless  feast 
That,  like  Belshazzar's,  set  the  seal 
Of  bondage  on  God's  commonweal ; 
When  in  the  nation's  capital 
Reigned  Slavery's  high  carnival, 
Where  all  the  lords  of  wealth  and  might 
Led  captive  outlawed  Truth  and  Right, 
And  e'en  the  Temple  cups  brought  in 
To  grace  the  triumph  of  their  sin, — 
Then  thy  handwriting  on  the  wall 


Did  all  their  stoutest  hearts  appall ; 
Their  trembling  lips,  with  oath  or  prayer, 
Betrayed  the  unseen  spectre  there ; 
While,  in  the  lines  thy  finger  drew, 
The  tyrant  God's  swift  judgment  knew! 

Or  —  change  the  figure  once  again  — 
When,  on  the  field  of  fighting  men, 
The  two  great  armies  met, —  the  free 
Stood  face  to  face  with  Slavery ; 
When  both  sides  claimed  their  cause  divine, 
And  looked  to  heaven  for  a  sign, — 
Thou  didst  flash  out, —  thy  streaming  hair 
A  threatening  comet  on  the  air, — 
And,  flaming  far  across  the  night, 
Helped  men  believe  God  loved  the  right, 
And,  cleaving  all  the  darkness  through, 
Wast  herald  of  a  day -dawn  new ! 


How  well  do  I  recall  the  days 

When,  groping  the  uncertain  ways 

Then  trodden  by  a  country  youth 

Who  tried  to  find  and  follow  Truth, 

While  looking  for  some  brain-refection 

Within  the  meagre  town  collection 

That  all  its  scanty  wealth  made  free 

To  hungry  comers  for  a  fee, 

I  stumbled  on  a  rare  surprise, — 

A  book  so  witty  and  so  wise 

That  ever  since  I've  venerated 

The  man  who  Hosea  B.  created, 

And  taught  him  how,  with  speech  uncouth, 

To  make  me  hate  aught  less  than  truth, 

And  with  his  ringing  challenge  lead 

The  way  to  noble  thought  and  deed! 

He  bade  me  hate  the  coward  lie, 

That  good  with  yesterday  could  die ; 


He  bade  revere  the  noble  past, 
Yet  know  no  partial  form  could  last ; 
He  bade  me  know  that  each  fresh  morn 
Some  new  God-gotten  truth  is  born, 
And  but  the  future  shall  unfold 
Man's  blessed  hope,  the  age  of  gold  ! 
His  words,  that  shamed  all  halting  fear, 
How  oft  they've  rung  in  my  glad  ear !  — 
New  visions  that  God  gives  to  youth 
Still  make  the  "ancient  good  uncouth"; 
And  they  must  "onward,  upward  still," 
Who  hope  Truth's  mission  to  fulfil ; 
We  like  the  Pilgrims  still  must  be, 
And  "  launch  our  '  Mayflower '  on  the  sea," 
Nor  think  "the  Past's  blood-rusted  key" 
Can  ope  the  doors  of  destiny ! 

Alas !    whose  is  this  weary  wail 
That  but  repeats  the  outworn  tale 


IO 


That,  in  each  age  since  time  began, 

Has  mocked  the  growing  hope  of  man  ? 

As  far  back  as  old  Homer's  days, 

They  had  begun  this  plaint  to  raise, 

And,  sighing  on  through  senile  rhymes, 

To  maunder  of  "  degenerate  "  times. 

The  poet  old,  as  up  the  track 

Of  years  heroic  he  looked  back, 

Beheld  the  figures  looming  tall 

About  the  Trojans'  fated  wall, 

And  sad  exclaimed,  "Not  ten  strong  men 

Alas !    the  world  is  not  as  then  — 

Could  now  e'en  lift  the  rock  that  he, 

Great  Ajax,  tossed  so  easily!" 

And  ever  since,  the  ages  long, 

Has  echoed  down  the  same  old  song. 

Each  age  repeats  its  wonder-lore 

Of  wonder  people  gone  before  ; 


II 

Sees,  looming  huge  the  twilight  through, 

Shapes  that  no  present  ever  knew. 

If  one  believed  the  tales,  he'd  think 

The  world  was  ever  on  the  brink 

Of  some  Ragnaroky  doomed  to  be 

The  dwindled  earth's  catastrophe! 

And  yet,  somehow,  in  logic's  spite, 

The  earth  rolls  upward  through  the  night, 

And  every  day,  with  promise  new, 

The  sun  shines  out,  and  heaven   is  blue ! 

E'en  in  my  life, —  not  long  as  yet, — 
So  many  times  the  day's  been  set 
When  this  old  world,  so  doomed  to  evil, 
So  hastening  downward  to  the  devil, 
Was  just  about  its  grip  on  bliss 
To  lose,  and  plunge  adown  th'  abyss ; 
And  yet,  so  often,  when  I've  placed 


12 

Myself,  and  got  my  feet  well  braced, 
In  waiting  for  the  world's  undoin', 
They  have  postponed  the  final  ruin, 
That  I've  concluded  now  to  wait 
Until  does  strike  the  clock  of  fate, 
And  not  waste  time,  with  fret  and  fume, 
Until  I  hear  the  "crack  o'  doom"! 
For,  though  these  dismal  prophets  tell 
Each  time  will  be  the  "last"  farewell, 
The  ruined  earth  comes  smiling  up 
To  pledge  us  in  a  brimming  cup 
Of  God's  new  wine  of  life,  that  runs 
Cheer-giving  rays  of  brighter  suns ! 

O  Lowell  !    no  one  better  knows 
That  slavery  of  the  body  grows 
From  slavery  of  heart  and  mind, — 
That  both  are  ever  of  a  kind ! 


And  yet  the  blast  that  thou  couldst  blow, 
That  so  rocked  Slavery's  Jericho, — 
Alas!    one  scarce  believes  his  ears, — 
Now  pipes,  an  echo  of  the  fears 
Of  these  same  Canaanites,  who  quake 
When  Israel's  rams'  horns  music  make  ! 

For  this  same  Science  that  has  pried, 
That  questions  earth  and  heaven  beside, 
That,  like  the  Babel-builders,  frets 
God's  fearful  champions  with  its  threats 
Of  scaling  heaven,  and  flinging  down 
The  weak  Almighty's  rusty  crown, — 
Alas  !    the  poor  Omnipotence 
That  seems  to  need  such  hot  defence  !  — 
This  Science  is  the  Titan  strong, 
Prometheus,  who,  to  right  man's  wrong, 
To  lift  the  weak,  and  haste  the  hour 


14 

When  thought  should  triumph  over  power, 

Defied  the  hate  conservative, 

That  he  to  daring  souls  might  give 

The  fire  celestial,  raising  clods 

Till  they  should  come  to  be  like  gods  ! 

Since  man,  of  every  force  the  slave, 

Crept,  an  autochthon,  from  his  cave, 

And,  brutal,  fought  with  brute,  to  share 

His  uncooked  food  and  bedless  lair, 

Until,  a  Jesus,  God's  own  child, 

He  walked  the  old  earth  undefiled, — 

Until,  with  Shakspere's  fancy,  he 

His  home  made  in  eternity, — 

Until  the  measured  suns  confess 

Him  child  of  the  Almightiness, — 

Until  the  steam,  winds,  lightnings,  all 

Of  nature's  forces,  know  his  call, — 

Until,  in  spite  of  craven  fears, 


He's  climbed  the  summit  of  the  years, 

And,  fearless  of  the  "  pious  "  frown, 

Has  seized  and  worn  his  manhood's  crown, — 

From  that  far  time  till  this,  pray  tell 

What  problem  he  has  tried  to  spell 

But  some  voice  still  has  filled  his  ears 

With  boding  wail  and  threatening  fears  ? 

And  yet  each  step  that  nearer  brought 

The  goal  of  good  was  science-taught. 

It  meant  the  wider,  freer  mind, 

That  to  near  dangers  could  be  blind, 

And  dare  to  see  a  better  day 

Break  with  its  promise  far  away ! 

But  never  a  new  morning  broke 

Except  to  hear  the  troubled  croak 

Of  some  belated  bird  of  night, 

That  thought  day  ended  with  the  light ! 


i6 

See  man,  a  brute  half-waked  from  sleep, 
Along  his  shores  primeval  creep, 
And,  awe-struck,  scan  the  misty  deep ! 
And  now,  behold !    the  dug-out  boat, 
In  which  he  dared  the  waves  to  float, 
To  palaces  steam-driven  grown  ! 
Lo  !    man  has  made  the  sea  his  throne, 
While  storms  and  winds  his  vassals  are, 
Which,  harnessed  to  his  floating  car, 
Bring  all  earth's  treasures  from  afar ! 

See  man,  fear-cowed,  his  hands  upraise 

To  where  the  clouds  with  lightnings  blaze, 

While  his  distorted  fancy  sees 

A  dragon  red  devour  the  trees ; 

And  he,  with  prayers  and  gifts,  in  vain 

The  monster's  ravage  would  restrain  ! 

And  now,  behold  !    the  lightnings  run, 


'7 

From  rising  until  set  of  sun 

On  tireless  feet,  his  willing  slave, 

Climb  mountains,  dive  beneath  the  wave, 

Till,  distancing  the  weary  wind, 

E'en  Puck's  fleet  wings  are  left  behind  ! 

See  man,  unclothed,  a  tree-branch  tear 
To  fight  the  nature-weaponed  bear, 
And  rob  him  of  his  blood-stained  skin 
To  wrap  his  freezing  weakness  in! 
And  now,  behold !   the  walls  arise 
Of  countless  humming  factories, 
Where  willing  waterfalls  their  play 
To  restless  labor  turn  all  day  ; 
Or  where  the  steam,  as  in  delight, 
Puts  forth  its  never-wearied  might, 
With  ponderous  stroke,  or  gentle  tap 
Too  low  to  rouse  a  sick  man's  nap ! 


i8 

And  see,  almost  surpassing  thought, 
The  crude  to  shapes  of  beauty  wrought. 
How  like  a  god  of  power  profuse 
It  pours  its  gifts  for  human  use ! 

See  man,  whose  babblings  vainly  reach 

To  grasp  the  mystery  of  speech, 

With  cry  and  gesture  seeking  still 

Some  fuller  utterance  of  his  will, 

While,  like  a  muddy  pool,  his  brain, 

Distorted,  gives  no  image  plain  ! 

And  now,  behold  !    the  alphabet 

Like  gems  upon  his  brow  he's  set, 

And  his  expanding  brain  he's  taught 

To  form  and  echo  subtlest  thought. 

Next,  from  the  mine,  that  wondrous  thing, 

A  pen  he's  borrowed  for  a  wing. 

With  this  through  fancy's  realm  he  flies 


Or  soars  in  philosophic  skies  ; 

With  Dante  sweeps  the  dusky  air 

That's  heavy  with  a  soul's  despair ;    . 

Or,  with  the  blind  old  seer  for  guide, 

Looks  down  o'er  heaven's  champaign  wide ; 

With  Kepler,  where  God's  planets  are, 

Tracks  God's  own  thought  from  star  to    star, 

Or  dives  down  to  the  depths  to  see 

The  microscope's  infinity. 

As  thus  by  growing  thought  portrayed, 

Man  seems  but  less  than  angel  made ! 

See  man  to  fetich  bending  low, 
And  seeing  in  each  force  a  foe. 
The  gods  his  enemies  appear ; 
His  worship's  but  a  cringing  fear : 
In  blood,  in  sorrow,  tears,  and  hate, 
He  solves  the  riddle  of  his  fate. 


20 

Upon  a  bleeding  altar  piled, 

He  burns  his  slave,  his  wife,  his  child, — 

The  dearest  and  the  best, —  to  buy 

The  cruel  gods  that  sit  on  high. 

And  now,  behold !    the  shapes  of  hate 

That  brooded  o'er  his  hapless  fate 

Have  faded  from  the  heavens  bright, 

As  day  drives  off  the  scowling  night. 

And  all  these  many,  grown  to  one, 

Shine  on  us  like  a  risen  sun. 

Now  hear  we  the  apostle's  call, 

"One  God  and  Father  of  us  all"; 

And,  knowing  we're  one  brotherhood, 

Learn  that  God's  worship  means  man's  good, 

While,  looking  up  the  years,  we  see 

God's  and  man's  kingdom  that's  to  be! 

It  asks  no  learning  recondite 

To  trace  the  dawn  of  all  this  light. 


21 

'Tis  Science,  free  thought,  just  the  grace 
That  dared  to  look  God  in  the  face, 
That  dared  to  question  heaven  and  earth, 
That  brings  the  God-man  child  to  birth. 
'Tis  this  that  stole  the  heavenly  spark, 
And  made  man  victor  o'er  the  dark ; 
'Tis  this  that  over  earth  and  sea 
Has  given  him  the  victory ; 
'Tis  this,  with  power  to  loose  and  bind, 
That's  made  him  king  of  steam  and  wind  ; 
'Tis  this  that  cleared  the  forests  dread, 
And  gave  the  farm  and  park  instead ; 
'Tis  this  that  forged  the  lightning's  chain, 
And  with  it  girdled  land  and  main  ; 
'Tis  this  that,  linking  thought  to   speech, 
Brings  earth  and  heaven  within  his  reach  ; 
'Tis  this  that  humanizes  God, 
And  shows  of  kin  with  him  the  clod  ! 


22 

The  whole  long  reach  from  brute  to  man 

That  binds  the  ages  with  its  span, 

That  reaches  forward  till  we  see 

The  better  time  that  is  to  be, — 

All  this  long  tale  of  battles  won 

But  tells  what  God-led  thought  has  done! 

And  not  one  single  step  was  taken 

But  some  old  structure  still  was  shaken. 

And  its  self-styled  defender's  gloom 

Mistook  Truth's  tread  for  "  trump  of    doom.'1 

But,  Lowell,  had  it  been  foretold 

That  you'd  have  played  this  farce  so  old, 

Though  prophets  had  declared  they  knew  it, 

I'd  never  have  believed  you'd  do  it ! 

For  all  these  years  thy  trumpet-blast 

Has  led  me  onward  from  the  past, 

While  ever  o'er  the  conflict's  gloom 


23 

Far  in  the  van  I've  seen  thy  plume ; 
And,  while  thy  bugle  note  still  rung, 
In  brain  and  heart  I've  known  thee  young. 
I  would  have  sworn,  whoever  faltered, 
My  Lowell's  faith  and  trust  unaltered. 
So,  when  I  saw  thee  in  the  rear, 
I  cried,  "  What  god  has  struck  with  fear 
My  hero  ? "     And  with  heart  all  pain 
I  felt  "my  eyes  cloud  up  for  rain." 

When  Douglass,  on  the  trial  day, 
Felt  once  his  faith  and  trust  give  way, 
Up  rose  brave  old  Sojourner  Truth, 
With  face  of  coal  and  form  uncouth, 
But  with  a  soul  devoid  of  fear, 
And  rang  out  with  her  challenge  clear : 
"Shame,  Frederick,  in  your  panic  dread! 
Say,  dost  thou  think  that  God  is  dead  ? " 


24 

Alas,  poor  God !   whose  servants  fear 
That,  like  a  cloud,  he'll  disappear, 
If  some  new  thought  should  dare  to  frame 
For  his  old  power  some  newer  name ! 
Alas,  poor  God !   that  such  transition 
Should  hinge  upon  a  definition ! 
Art  thou  so  weak  some  fatal  spasm 
May  seize  thee,  if  called  protoplasm  ? 
And  did  brave  Cromwell's  power,  that  sent 
Fear-stricken  a  whole  parliament, 
That,  spite  of  awe  that  hedged  a  king, 
Could  Charles  unto  a  scaffold  bring, — 
Was  all  this  power  on  him  conferred 
By  just  the  difference  in  a  word  ? 

'Tis  very,  very  sweet  indeed, 

This  peace  and  quiet  of  one's  creed  ; 

To  hear  "  Old  Hundred  "  ringing  loud, 


25 

As  if  from  angels  on  a  cloud ; 
To  feel  the  soul,  on  lifted  wing, 
Soar  upward  as  the  people  sing, — 
These  sentiments  are  passing  dear, 
As  were  those  strains  to  childhood's  ear. 
But  who'd  not  gladly  give  this  peace, 
If  so  the  world  might  gain  release 
From  that  old  horror  of  the  hell 
That  all  the  ancient  creeds  foretell  ? 
"Old  Hundred,"  even,  had  the  moan 
Of  lost  souls  for  an  undertone : 
One  still  heard,  in  its  grandest  strains, 
The  drip  of  tears  and  clank  of  chains. 
From  the  old  record  can  we  strike 
Just  what  we  happen  not  to  like, — 
Keep  the  old  mansion,  but  let  go 
The  shadowy  basement  down  below  ? 


26 

Your  brother  poet,  Holmes,  whose  head 

With  all  our  loves  is  garlanded, — 

He,  too,  not  long  since,  spoke  his  mind 

About  our  modern  Thomas-kind. 

He  called  them  "  mystery-solving  lynxes," 

And  sighed  for  old  times,  when  the  sphinxes 

Looked  calmly  o'er  the  dreaming  sand 

Of  Egypt's  still  undoubting  land. 

He  cried,  "  Give  back  our  faith  ! "     The  ways 

They  used  to  know  in  convent  days 

Were  better  than  this  finding  out 

The  truth,  whose  shadow  still  is  doubt ! 

True,  true,  if  turning  on  our  track 
The  ancient  comfort  might  bring  back ; 
If  —  this  is  Tennyson's  heart-cry, 
When  dawn  was  fading  from  his  sky  — 
If  we  "  our  sister's  heaven  "  might  know 


2? 

Without  our  brother's  hell  of  woe  ; 
If  we  might  tread  the  old-time  path, 
And  find  the  love  without  the  wrath, — 
Oh,  then  it  might  be  sweet  indeed 
To  "robe  us"  in  our  outworn  creed! 
But  is't  not  something,  when  all's  done, 
The  cursing  of  the  curse  t'  have  won  ? 
If  th'  agnostic  gives  not  bliss, 
Yet  who  will  not  be  glad  at  this, — 
That  one  may  dare  to  doubt  th'  abyss  ? 

If  there  lives  one  who  breathes  man's  breath 
Who  would  not  welcome  dreamless  death, 
Who  would  not  kiss  the  grave's  green  sod 
And  glad  embrace  the  senseless  clod, 
Who'd  not  with  gratitude  lay  down 
His  hope  of  heaven  and  his  crown, 
And,  like  a  miser,  grasp  and  keep 


28 

The  poor  blank  hope  of  endless  sleep, — 

This,  rather  than  take  heaven's  fee 

At  cost  of  hopeless  misery 

Of  one  poor  soul,  the  meanest  one 

That  ever  crawled  beneath  the  sun, — 

If  there  is  one  such  selfish  soul 

Who  o'er  one  lost  would  reach  his  goal, 

Then  I  in  hell  would  rather  be 

Than  share  e'en  heaven  with  such  as  he ! 

Let  me  then  live  my  poor  life  out 
Befogged  and  lost  on  seas  of  doubt 
Rather  than  by  hell's  light  to  see 
A  "title  clear"  to  bliss  for  me! 
And  He  who,  as  the  churches  say, 
To  save  men  left  the  realms  of  day, 
Sure  He'll  not  love  me  less  for  this, 
That  I'd  surrender  all  my  bliss 


29 

To  go  among  the  lost  and  take 
A  cooling  drop  their  thirst  to  slake  ! 
Or  can  it  be  that  now  so  long 
He's  listened  to  the  gladsome  song 
Of  those  far  off  from  pain,  his  ears 
Grow  deaf  to  sounds  of  falling  tears  ? 

But  are  we  quite  lost  in  the  fog? 
Do  never  angels  go  incog.? 
Sometimes  —  the  Bible  so  declares  — 
Men  "entertain  them  unawares." 
Perhaps  this  Science  men  so  fear 
God's  guiding  angel  may  appear. 
In  every  step  the  world  has  taken, 
The  ancient  things  are  always  shaken  ; 
And  what  is  shaken,  Scriptures  say, 
Is  just  about  to  pass  away. 
The  old  must  change  and  pass,  'tis  true, 


30 

But  only  to  make  room  for  new. 

The  plough  must  May's  fresh  flowers  tear 

That  it  the  harvest  may  prepare  ; 

And,  if  a  mouse's  nest  be  torn, 

The  end  of  all  the  mouse  may  mourn  : 

And  yet  the  harvest  justifies 

The  deaths  that  in  its  pathway  lies. 

'Twas  undue  love  for  older  thought 

That  Jesus  to  Golgotha  brought ; 

For  he  the  rough  disturber  seemed 

Of  sweet  old  rest  in  which  men  dreamed. 

And  they  who  now  the  new  deride 

Still  shout,  "Let  him  be  crucified!" 

The  ages  change ;  but  still  men  slay 

The  daring  prophets  of  their  day, 

While  ancient  slayers  they  disdain, 

And  laud  the  victims  once  so  slain. 

Alas,  such  "difference  should  be 


31 

Twixt  tweedledum  and  tweedledee  "  ! 
But  Tweedledum  is  old ;  and  so 
About  it  ancient  ivies  grow. 
While  Tweedledee  is  new :  as  yet 
The  ivy  leaves  are  hardly  set. 

"O  ye  of  little  faith!"  d'ye  fear 
God  cannot  face  the  daylight  clear, 
That  he's  a  God  of  cloud  and  night, 
And  dreads  the  dawn's  uprising  light  ? 
Art  fearful  that  his  work  may  show 
Brass  'neath  the  gilt  to  those  who  know,- 
That  to  a  strict  search  there  might  be 
Found  aught  to  shame  the  deity  ? 
Is  this  world  but  an  empty  shrine 
That  hides  within  it  naught  divine  ? 
Must  they  who'd  their  devotion  keep 
From  far,  through  half-shut  eyelids,  peep 


32 

At  his  high  temple,  guarded  well 

By  priests  who  know,  but  dare  not  tell, 

Lest,  should  they  tell,  all  men  would  know 

That  they  are  orphans  here  below? 

Oh,  sure,  this  doubt  of  truth  must  be 

The  one,  real  infidelity ! 

God  must  possess  omnipotence, 

Or  he'd  be  slain  by  such  defence  ! 

And,  Father,  in  thy  book  write  down  — 

I  never  tried  to  save  thy  crown, 

But  trusted  that  thy  throne  was  sure, 

Rock-based  in  that  which  must  endure ! 

At  sea  we  sail ;  nor  yet  may  know 
The  port, —  whence  come  nor  where  we  go. 
Sometimes  the  sun  laughs  on  our  way ; 
Sometimes  we're  glad  to  lose  the  day, 
Because  the  wide  night-heaven,  afire 


33 

With  stars,  may  teach  us  to  aspire. 
Sometimes  the  fog  devours  the  sun, 
And  e'en  the  stars  fade,  one  by  one. 
But  what  man  ever  cast  a  log 
Who  does  not  know  light  makes  the  fog  ? 
Light  is  above,  below,  around  ; 
And,  though  the  dismal  fog-bell  sound, 
Still  hold  the  helm,  and  forward  glide, 
Steam  onward  towards  the  farther  side. 
For  there  the  sun  smiles,  and  in  glee 
The  winds  play  with  the  laughing  sea. 
'Tis  but  the  coward  who  turns  back, 
And  shirks  the  God-appointed  track. 
Through  cloud  or  sun  drive  on  the  keel ; 
'Tis  God,  though  unseen,  holds  the  wheel. 
Or,  if  one  doubts  this,  playing  trust 
Will  naught  avail  us:  sink  we  must. 


34 

I  fret  not,  though,  with  flattened  nose 
Against  the  pane,  "  beyond  my  toes " 
I  cannot  see  :   the  track  behind 
Such  ages  long,  through  wave  and  wind, 
Some  hand  has  guided,  that  I  know 
The  helmsman  cannot  be  my  foe. 
The  seas  we  have  sailed  over  tell 
The  hand  that  holds  us  knows  them  well. 
Still  brighter  stars  shine  out  at  night ; 
Still  fairer  countries  heave  in  sight ; 
And,  by  the  warrant  of  the  past, 
Some  noble  port  we'll  make  at  last ! 

Or,  let  us  sink,  the  power  that  wakes 
The  wind  song,  or  with  morning  breaks, 
Still  whispers  to  the  ear  that  hears 
More  than  to  hasty  sight  appears, — 
Assurance  that,  though  wrecked,  'twould  be 
To  sail  still  on — "another  sea." 


35 

0  Lowell !    I  gave  first  to  thee 
My  boyhood's  love  and  loyalty. 
My  youth  took  fire  at  thy  word  ; 
And  thou  my  manhood's  spirit  stirred 
To  lofty  faith  and  noble  trust. 

1  love  thee  still,  because  I  must ; 
For  early  loves  and  trusts  remain, 

Nor  break  with  common  stress  or  strain. 
Among  the  singers  who  have  made 
Rare  music  in  each  wood  and  glade 
Of  our  New  England,  thy  heart  tone 
Has  oftenest  matched  and  thrilled  my  own. 
Wherever  storming  party  led, 
I've  seen  thy  standard  still  ahead; 
Wherever  fight  was  fought  for  man, 
I've  heard  thy  shout  far  in  the  van. 
And  now  —  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
The    hour    should    come    when    thou    wouldst 
shrink, 


36 

Cry  halt,  or  lose  that  courage  grand 
That  gave  thy  voice  its  old  command. 

And  dost  thou  fear  that,  science-led, 
The  world  may  find  that  Faith  is  dead,- 
Exchange  the  soul  for  dust,  and  see 
No  more  the  stars  that  used  to  be  ? 
No,  no !     Thou  canst  not !     For  to-day 
The  old-time  "faiths"  do  pass  away; 
But  Faith  remains ;   and,  undefiled, 
True  Science  is  true  Faith's  own  child. 
She  only  dares,  with  utter  trust, 
To  seek  God  in  a  grain  of  dust, 
And  learn  that  sainthood's  holiest  awe 
Is  one  with  gravitation's  law. 
She  only  dares,  and,  daring,  holds 
That  One  Life  all  the  worlds  enfolds; 
And  that,  or  studying  soul  or  clod, 


37 

We  still  are  face  to  face  with  God  ; 
That,  spell  it  ever  as  we  will, 
It  is  the  same  One  Being  still; 
That,  in  the  soul  or  in  a  sun, 
The  one  same  force  is  ever  one ; 
That,  though  all  else  be  less  than  sure, 
This  basis  is  at  least  secure. 

And  dost  thou  really  fear  to  see 

In  science  death  of  poetry  ? 

I  know  that  Wordsworth,  in  his  age, 

Was  senile  grown  instead  of   sage, 

And,  careless  of  God's  new  worlds  born, 

Bemoaned  lost  "Triton"  and  his  "horn," 

So  fearful  was  he  lest  the  Muse 

To  flee  a  wiser  world  should  choose. 

But  is  this  Poesy  a  sprite 

To  flee,  ghost-like,  the  morning's  light  ? 


38 

Must  she  still  prattle  on  in  rhymes 

That  sing  of  only  child-world  times  ? 

Or  is  she  not  God's  daughter  grave, 

With  star-like  eyes,  and  girded  brave 

With  God's  breastplate  of  truth,  to  sing 

The  grander  ages  and  their  king  ? 

The  baby-house  that  man  once  taught 

Was  measure  of  th'  Almighty  thought, 

The  petty  world  that  Dante  knew, 

Our  daring  Science  has  burst  through ; 

While  up  star-vistas  now  we  see 

The  gateways  of  Infinity. 

Shall  not  the  Muse  some  day  be  heard 

In  utterance  of  a  grander  word, 

To  match  the  grander  theme  that  runs, 

A  fugue,  whose  notes  are  worlds  and  suns  ? 

Could  she  but  tune  her  mighty  lyre, 
And  prelude  first  the  cloud  of  fire 


39 

That,  cooling,  one  by  one  has  whirled 
Off  ring  on  ring,  each  ring  a  world ; 
Could  she  sing  thus  the  planet's  birth, 
And  how  life  dawned  upon  the  earth ; 
Could   she  the  mystery  unfold 
Of  how  the  new  succeeds  the  old ; 
See  man  leap  to  his  feet,  and  face 
The  heavens,  and  then  his  journey  trace, 
As  on,  through  blood  and  toil  and   tears, 
He  climbed  the  steep  path  of  the  years, 
Until,  with  earth  beneath  his  feet, 
He  stood  divine,  a  man  complete, — 
Could  but  the  Muse,  instead  of  whining 
For  what  returns  not  for  repining, 
But  plume  her  wing  for  this  high  flight, 
She  might  a  poem  still  indite, 
Compared  with  which  the  epics  old, 
That  chant  a  dreamed-of  "age  of  gold," 


40 

Were  but  as  dawn-time  twitterings 
Matched  with  the  song  the  skylark  sings. 

So,  Lowell,  strike  thy  harp  once  more, 
And  let  us  hear  it  as  of  yore  — 
Such  music  as  once  cheered  the  slave, 
Made  cowards  hide  or  else  turn  brave. 
The  sun  is  not  about  to  set ; 
'Tis  but  the  morning  twilight  yet. 
The  dawn  still  fights  the  early  mists : 
But  'tis  Apollo  in  the  lists  ; 
And  his  bright  arrows  shall  lay  low 
The  Dragon,  Dark,  his  ancient  foe. 
Man's  but  a  child  as  yet ;   but  see 
The  cradled  Hercules  to  be, 
Who  e'en  with  infant  hands  can  slay 
The  serpent  ills  that  cross  his  way. 


Behind  us  is  the  dawn  ;   before, 
The  day  is  broadening  to  more ; 
And  man,  the  child  of  all  the  past, 
Approaches  man's  estate  at  last. 
"  Now  are  we  sons  of  God  ! "  nor  see 
But  glimpses  of  the  yet  to  be, — 
The  glory  that  shall  come  to  birth 
When  man's  at  one  with  God  on  earth. 
Then,  Lowell,  let  thy  latest  lay 
Be  not  a  wail  of  dying  day ; 
But  let  us  hear  thy  bugle-horn 
Ring  welcome  to  the  rising  morn. 


VA  0(889 


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